


The Purloined Perfume

by luna65



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna65/pseuds/luna65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which The Nose knows better than Mr. Holmes…but not for long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Purloined Perfume

**Author's Note:**

> Set during S2 between “Hounds” and “Reichenbach.” As Sherlock has noted, he is a expert on the identification of perfumes, which led to a brainstorm (well a cloudburst, anyway). Basically a little “drawing room mystery” style of tale. Beta’d and Britpicked by my friends Mara and Alice, fellow scented obsessives, and I thank them profusely.

“Hmm.”

Dr. John Watson – up to his elbows in scented sudsy hot water – turned his head towards the sitting room of the two-bedroom flat at 221B Baker Street which he occupied, frowning at the sound his flatmate had chosen to make. That sort of vocalization usually meant something was afoot, and that something was not always pleasant. With Sherlock Holmes, one could never tell if folly, fortune or disaster was about to occur.

However, at this moment he was engaged in requisite drudgery in the kitchenette as their landlady Mrs. Hudson was off in Brighton visiting her sister and after several days of watching the crockery pile up in the sink, John became wholly aware that the world’s only consulting detective wasn’t apt to pitch in with the washing-up. So he donned one of Mrs. Hudson’s aprons and set to work, floating on a cloud of the fruity charms of her choice of dish soap.

 _I rather like this Guava Garden stuff_ , he noted to himself. _It’s soothing, somehow_. He began pondering if there was some sort of psychological aromatherapy agenda which the manufactures of household cleaning products were pursuing in order to encourage consumers to use their products when, on the heels of the _hmm_ , his flatmate called out “Can you get that?” a moment before the doorbell rang downstairs.

“Bit busy at the mo,” John called out in reply, rolling his eyes.

“It’s a case,” Sherlock replied in his typical dry distracted tone, and John sighed, stepping away from the sink and drying his hands with a teatowel.

“Right then,” he said, and came out to deliver another salvo which he knew would be deflected and yet he never seemed to tire of the skirmish.

“Y’know, there is such a thing as _division of labour_ amongst occupants of the same domicile.”

Sherlock looked up from his violin and a slight smirk pursed his lips.

“That apron is more fetching on you than Mrs. Hudson, I wager. Be a shame to let its effect go to waste on having me answer the door.”

He was rewarded by John’s look of embarrassment as the other pulled it off, threw it down on a nearby chair, and headed over to the stairs.

“Yes I’m coming!” he shouted as the bell rang once more.

Sherlock looked off at the doorway, frowning slightly, his bright eyes seeming to focus elsewhere. He’d seen the caller on the street and thought he knew why the person was seeking his assistance but one could never tell all the twists and turns an inquiry might take. He then sniffed and made a moue of dismay at Mrs. Hudson’s taste in cleaning products, rising to open a window.

 

John opened the door to a woman of average height, though she stood inches above him courtesy of expensive black suede heels. She was clothed in a pale pink suit, with a flowered black silk blouse beneath the jacket, the blooms in the design lending a complementary shade to the ensemble. The outfit reminded John of the late Jennifer Wilson, also an enthusiast of the color pink. The woman’s hair bore the unnatural gleam of augmented pigmentation, the muted gloom of the afternoon revealed it to be a deep brownish-red. And she smelled _fantastic_ , he nearly swooned as a scent both seemingly familiar and tantalizingly original slithered into his nose and thus to his brain. Wide brown eyes sought his own and she smiled, tentatively.

“Is Mr. Holmes in?” she asked, and her voice had a slight child-like lilt to it.

“Yes, do come in,” John replied, opening the door fully and making an _after you_ gesture to the visitor. She followed him up the stairs and the _clack_ of her heels was a sound he realized he hadn’t heard in several days. John smiled to himself to realize how much he missed Mrs. Hudson. He entered the sitting room first and saw his flatmate smirk in a characteristically sardonic fashion at the appearance of the visitor.

“Lottie McGherson, I presume,” Sherlock said from his chair, in the manner of a pronouncement. John watched as the woman smiled and flushed, looking down at the black handbag she clutched.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I take it my reputation precedes me, then.”

“Your perfume precedes you.” Sherlock looked up to the ceiling for a second, pondering. “ _Sasha’s Tea Party, 1972_. It won you a Fifi, did it not?”

“Right again. I would like to speak with you about a matter –“

“- of corporate espionage, I take it, though you’ve managed to keep it out of the press at this point.”

“Uh, possibly, you see –“

“Would you care for some tea, or –“ John interjected, gesturing to a nearby chair. He removed a pile of newspapers and books as well as a large and dangerous-looking calliper, used to measure the heads of corpses. He hoped the visitor didn’t know what it was.

“Oh no, thank you,” she demurred, smiling in a less shy fashion. John took the opportunity to inhale her heady aroma once more and grinned in return.

“Stop mooning, please,” Sherlock snapped. “ **I** would like some tea.”

“You know where everything is,” John murmured. He took a seat next to their visitor.

Sherlock threw his flatmate an incredulous look for several moments, which was returned with a serene smile. He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his long fingers.

“To apprise my colleague, Dr. Watson –“

“Yes, pleased to meet you,” Lottie said, turning toward the other. “I’ve seen you on the telly.”

John grinned again which seemed to infuriate Sherlock.

“Ms. McGherson is known as the English _Nose_ ,” he continued, putting a mocking inflection upon the last word.

“The bloggers love their little quips, they do.”

“She is the head fragrance designer for the House of Devardieu, which has been in operation for nearly a century. Very successfully I might add; award-winning and you’ve made lots of money for your French overlords, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” she answered, and her tone was plain, as if to say the facts were clear.

“She possesses – if the press can be believed – the olfactory equivalent of an eidetic memory. Complete and perfect recall of scent memory, and as scent is the most evocative of all the senses, she can recreate an event, a place, a time, or even another fragrance simply by recalling, identifying, and combining the accompanying note or notes.”

“It **is** true,” Lottie asserted, turning to John once more. “I have recreated perfumes from decades past, which are no longer made, perfect duplicates. I have also created scents of particular times and places and people say they smell just like their own memories, their experiences of the past.”

“That’s quite remarkable,” he enthused, catching his colleague rolling his eyes at the comment.

“Yes yes, you’re quite the special snowflake, as the kids are saying these days. But obviously something has gone wrong, and it’s not just your unfortunate outfit.”

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, and for a moment the recipient of the scold was put in mind of their absent landlady, whom he missed more than he would ever admit.

 _Why did I let Mrs. Hudson go on holiday?_ he wondered. _If she were here at least I’d have some tea and biccies for my trouble._ He scanned the form of the visitor, and his subsequent observation came not visually, but olfactory, in regards to the nature of her inquiry.

“You’ve had something stolen, but judging from the scent of it I’d say it was a favor rather than a loss.”

 

In the seeming interminable silence which accompanied Sherlock’s last statement, Lottie McGherson’s expression was a mixture of shock and distress, and therefore John thought the best thing to do was to put the kettle on.

“There’s nothing can’t be dealt with when you’ve a cuppa,” Mrs. Hudson was fond of saying.

Sherlock, on the other hand, sat quietly, musing as he considered the odor which he had detected. It was almost…obscene, and he wasn’t certain what led to him that conclusion, exactly. Then he recalled one of several encounters with The Woman and smiled thinly, admiring of Lottie’s abilities. He was almost envious… _almost_ , realizing she might be useful to him, and there were very few people he considered so. He let his visitor stew in her own pique, marveling at her reticence. Most women would have shouted or stormed off by now, given the look he was witnessing.

Eventually John brought in the tea service and set it on the table between them. He poured a cup and held it out to their guest, who took it with slightly trembling hands. She added a bit of sugar and sipped it slowly, seeming to gain a sense of composure from the ritual.

“Where are the biscuits?” Sherlock asked as he served himself.

John looked up from his preparations. “Oh we’ve only a few stale –“

“Don’t be selfish, John, you’ve Tim Tams in your room.”

John glared at him and it was Sherlock’s turn to smile serenely.

Just then Lottie spoke, and her voice was hushed and husky.

“Your opinion of my latest work aside, Mr. Holmes, it is a fragrance which is entirely unique in the annals of perfumery.”

“And thus incredibly valuable, I imagine. So which of your rivals do you suspect?”

“That’s just it, I _know_ who took the master flask. What I don’t know is where she hid it. And I can’t ask her because she’s dead now.”

“Well that’s rather a sticky wicket then, isn’t it?” Sherlock quipped and John had to stop himself from groaning aloud as he went to fetch his hoarded box of Tim Tams from beneath his bed.

_If the man spent less time deducing the whereabouts of my sweets, we might actually accomplish something useful!_

 

Over tea and chocolate Tim Tams, Lottie related the narrative of her predicament.

“My assistant’s name was Phillipa Jones, we had worked together for over ten years. A couple weeks back she announced she was going off to Gretna Green to get married, and while I was happy for her, I was also a bit skeptical because I’d met her fiancé previously and he struck me as rather dodgy.”

“Dodgy how?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, to be honest, he looked a criminal. Shabby and suspicious, like he was always up to something. And he was on the dole, apparently content to let Phillipa support him. But I wanted to be nice to her, so I hosted a wedding shower this past Friday, we had the do at a local Paki place we all fancy – my staff and I, I mean – and it was the usual sort of thing: cake and prezzies and champers and so on –“

“And then?”

“I helped Phillipa bring everything back to the office, she didn’t want to take it home all at once. I wager she thought he would sell it off or some such, and we got to chatting, had a bit more drink, and well…”

“You told her you thought she was making a mistake.”

Lottie grimaced. “Yeah. It was the champagne doing most of the talking, of course, but I couldn’t keep it in. I’ve always been like that when I’m snockered, and well, there were tears and accusations and so forth.”

“It can be difficult to hear the truth, even when it’s well-meant,” John opined.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but the face of his colleague remained blandly sympathetic.

“And she began shouting at me that she’d been loyal all these years, and she’d done so much for me, she’d come up with ideas, she’d looked after me, she –“

“- loved you,” Sherlock concluded.

An errant tear slipped down her face, and John handed their visitor his kerchief.

“Yes, that’s what she said. I’d no idea, truly, I swear it, I just –“

“- took advantage of her utter devotion to you for a decade. And she told you that she was doing the only thing she could do, since you never noticed her, never noticed how much she cared for you, marrying a man whom – yes – was obviously beneath her, in the hopes that you’d talk her out of it and realize that _you_ were the one she really loved.”

Lottie stared open-mouthed once more, at both men.

John shrugged, feeling embarrassed for her. “Uh…he does that, can be rather annoying.”

“But is it **true**?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, it’s like you were there, heard every word. I’d sussed none of it; I mean, I don’t fancy women and –“

Sherlock smirked at John for a moment. “You didn’t know because you don’t pay attention, Ms. McGherson. A useful ability like yours and the world goes on no farther than the tip of your nose; rather a waste, I’d say. So this is what prompted the theft?”

“I can only assume; either that or the two of them had some scheme worked out.”

“And how did she come to her sad end?”

“You didn’t read it in the paper, then? After we quarreled she went home. I’d offered to call a taxi but she wanted to walk. Once she got to her flat – and it was rather late – she had a row with her fiancé and he shot her, point-blank. The neighbors had called the police when they heard the shouting and he was arrested.”

“She told him.”

Lottie began to cry softly. “I don’t know but it seems so, doesn’t it? I can only think it’s all my fault, poor Phils, she was a good person, she didn’t deserve such a horrible death.”

“When did you discover the theft?”

Lottie breathed deeply, regaining her composure. “A day later. I’d secured the master flask in the lab vault; we have a specific protocol for inventory when we work with the juice, so there’s always a record of when the flasks are logged in and out. I’d returned it before we went to the party. The next day, not knowing what had occurred, I went into the lab to go over my notes and start my final write-up on the scent because we were finished with the brewing. But the master flask was gone. Phillipa and I were the only ones on our floor after the time I’d locked it up, we were the last to arrive at the restaurant for the party, you see.”

“And you thought she had done it out of spite.”

“I assumed, and when I got to her flat I found Inspector Lestrade and his team, and I told him who I was and what had happened. He allowed me to go inside but the minute I entered I knew it wasn’t there.”

“Just by the smell?” John asked, incredulous.

“You’re a right bloodhound, Lottie McGherson, you are,” Sherlock gibed, dryly.

“Funny, Inspector Lestrade said the same thing about you. And so that’s why I’m here.”

 

John cleared off the tea set, noticing the suds had all dissolved and the lovely cloud of Guava Garden had floated away. The dirty dishes in the now-cold water of the sink gave him a shudder but he added the teacups and saucers anyway. When he returned to the sitting room, he saw Lottie had extracted a heavy-duty plastic bag from her purse, not unlike the type used for hazardous waste.

“This scent was inspired by a conversation I had with the girls one night, after work. We were down the pub, having a few –“

“As you do,” Sherlock interjected and John knew he was being sarcastic, as his flatmate was not an enthusiast of any public house, though they had a nice one just down the road.

“Right, and we all realized we liked a certain smell. The smell of –“

“Sex,” he said, and John was surprised to see the other was not flustered to speak of it.

“So you can tell what it is, then? It’s obvious?”

“Not immediately, no. But, much like people, it makes its character known eventually.”

“I know it smells terribly strong in this form, it’s directly from the distillate. When it goes into production it will be properly diluted, though the sillage will be robust; it’s meant to be.”

Lottie opened the bag and the minute she extracted a slip of paper from it a wave of the scent hit their noses and to John’s reckoning it felt like a slap.

“Phwoar!” he exclaimed, entirely unconscious.

”As pithy as ever, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock said, his nose slightly twitched but otherwise he did not appear to be affected by the scent.

“Yes, it’s rather…provocative, I s’pose you could say.”

“You realize, don’t you, that your assistant’s theft of the master flask of this particular scent had nothing to do with profit nor spite.”

Lottie sat back in the chair, sealing the bag once more. “Beg pardon?”

“She gave you ideas, you said it yourself. Who was the first of the hens to admit they enjoyed the scent of post-coital secretions in the sheets? Was it perhaps Ms. Jones, faithful assistant?”

“Well, she might have _said_ it first, but –“

“And how many other ideas have you been taking the credit for all these years, hmm? Collecting shiny trophies and such, but nary an acknowledge to the imagination behind the calculation.”

John looked over, wondrous at Sherlock’s rhyme. Sometimes the man was positively poetic. But mostly he was just infuriating.

“And she knew, didn’t she, that you were expecting this one to be the **one** , the one you would be notorious for, worldwide - _the woman who put sex in a bottle_ \- and she’d finally had enough. So her – though she had no idea it would be **final** – message to you: _you’re nothing without me_.”

“Mr. Holmes! It’s all well and good to berate me, but I must find that flask! My competitors are working on this very same idea, did you think we’d be the _only_ ones to come up with it, whomever first thought of it or no –“

“Steam Engine Time sort of thing,” John said, which earned him another glare from his colleague.

“Exactly; but we’ve done it, you see. We’re ready for release. I can’t risk someone else finding the flask, I’ll be ruined! I’ll pay you whatever you like –“

Sherlock snorted with derision. “Money! Money causes the inflation of egos such as your own, you can’t put a price on what I do. However, because I believe you might be useful to me, I’ll solve the mystery. But you must solve one in turn for me.”

Lottie blinked, looking confused. “Well…certainly, if you think I can be of help.”

Sherlock held up a finger, indicating she should wait. He rose from his chair and went into his bedroom. He emerged minutes later with a plastic bag, also not unlike the one Lottie had in her purse.

“Please focus your olfactory acumen on this object and tell me what perfume is emanating from it. Keep in mind that this object is over thirty years old.”

She took the bag from him and opened it just slightly, her nostrils flaring. John could sense a slight greenish scent but it seemed rather faint. Lottie then opened the bag wider and took a deep whiff, closing it as well as her eyes as she loudly breathed in and out for over a minute.

“Well of course you don’t know what it is, Mr. Holmes, it was created before you were born. Me too, of course, but -“

“Are you saying the fragrance is older than the blouse it scents?”

“Yes, by about ten years or so, but by the time whomever wore this blouse was using it, it was already out of fashion. It would go off the market not long after.”

“Was it popular in the UK at one time?”

“Not particularly, though it made its way here from another place, one where Brits were likely to visit.”

“The woman who wore that blouse is a British citizen.”

“Ever see her passport? That would tell you.”

Sherlock sat forward in his chair. “She’s traveled widely, then?”

“At least to the Southern Hemisphere, I can tell you that much. Or knows someone who did. It’s a very distinctive scent, is it not?”

“Entirely. I have never smelt anything like it, ever. But there is one ingredient which eludes my analysis.”

Lottie smiled, and John realized she was experiencing a moment of triumph: she knew something which the world’s only consulting detective did not, had not arrived at despite his attempts.

 _I’d be fairly chuffed myself_ , he thought, and smiled in kind.

“It’s the buchu root, you see, which gives it that intriguing character. It’s only grown in one place.”

Sherlock’s face lit up with an epiphany. “ _Enchanted Cape_!” he cried out.

“So you do know it, then.”

“It’s the only fragrance from South Africa which ducked the Apartheid sanctions, albeit briefly.”

“How did you know **that**?” John asked, confused.

Sherlock gave him a _Do you really have to ask?_ look and Lottie took another whiff of the blouse.

“ _Enchanted Cape_ , created in the mid-1960s by Jonathan Coatzee, sold in Paris for a short time before being banned, but tourists and expatriates were bringing it back from Johannesburg and Cape Town duty-free and it enjoyed a brief but obscure popularity on the continent. So is this evidence, for a case?”

“No, that blouse belongs to Mrs. Hudson and I’ve been wondering for years now what perfume it still held. She couldn’t recall.”

Lottie blinked again, and John was beginning to find it a rather enchanting quirk.

“Our landlady,” he murmured, gazing into those wide brown eyes and…

“You have to leave now,” Sherlock blurted out.

“So you can begin your investigation?” Lottie asked.

“No, because I fear Dr. Watson is about to get down on one knee and say something stupid. And how do we rid the flat of this _stench_?”

“Oh it will fade in a day or two. But you see now how I could tell where it _wasn’t_.”

“Quite so.”

“But don’t you want –“

Sherlock waved her off, turning his back on the visitor. “No Ms. McGherson, one way in which you’ve definitely succeeded is one can **never** forget that scent.” He then sighed heavily. “Even if one wanted to.”

 

Eventually the visitor stood up and fixed the world’s only consulting detective with an expression he would have characterized as _uncharitable_ , had he believed in such things.

“Mr. Holmes, I don’t see how you can make such scathing remarks about my outfit when you live in a flat with the most ghastly wallpaper I’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock turned and looked at the wall behind them, as if he’d never noticed it before.

“Helps me think, the pattern,” he murmured, then turned back to her. “You should never wear pink, makes it look like you’re trying too hard.”

“At what?” she asked, speaking to his retreating figure as he moved to the window on the outer wall.

“At everything.” Sherlock picked up his violin and Lottie McGherson came to the conclusion – which was entirely correct – that he was finished speaking with her.

John came forward to attempt diplomacy in farewell and she smiled, laying a hand upon his arm.

“Professionally speaking, Dr. Watson, you might want to try Papaya Passion, if you like that sort of thing.”

“Sorry, what?” the other inquired with a frown.

“The washing-up liquid, I mean. Also, your milk has gone off.”

The frown deepened. “Ms. McGherson, how do I say this without…uh…sounding rather strange, but we’ve some questionable items in the fridge. So I would imagine –“

She smiled again. “Yes I’d rather guessed – with the smell of decay and all - but it’s the milk. You’ll need to bin it. Here’s my card, when Mr. Holmes has information for me.”

“It will be posted on the website; you don’t get special dispensation for being a bungling boss.”

“Please Mr. Holmes, don’t use my name! I can’t afford the bad publicity.”

“I shall think of a suitable sobriquet, rest assured.”

His audience exchanged dubious glances and the English Nose took her leave.

“Show-off,” Sherlock muttered as soon as the door of the flat had shut.

“Well I’ll be buggered,” John exclaimed, standing in front of the open refrigerator door. “It **has** gone off! That was bloody brilliant!”

“Lottie McGherson is a one-trick pink pony,” Sherlock sniped. 

“You can’t stand it when someone does a thing better than you.”

“It’s not a _thing_ , it’s an ability in which one can be trained. But it’s useless without the intellectual acumen to comprehend the larger milieu.”

“She certainly does alright, I’d say. And why are you turning down her money?!”

“Oh you can collect once I’ve solved it. Hmm…”

Sherlock stared at the wall and played slowly.

”Y’don’t think this wallpaper is ugly, do you?” he asked John.

“Wot?” John looked up from his laptop. “Uh no, it’s just…startling, I s’pose, till one gets used to it.”

“So clever Phillipa Jones insisted on walking home that night because she wanted to hide the flask after she decided on nicking it. And she also knew the first place Lottie would look was at her residence. Where does one hide a flask full of obscenely potent perfume?”

“How big is the flask?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Well, wouldn’t that dictate the hiding place, though?”

“It has to be some place where the fragrance is undetectable, the size of the spot does not matter!”

“Uh…lead-lined vault?”

John was rewarded with a glare. He looked at his watch.

“Could do with a nosh, close enough to dinner.”

“Oh look,” Sherlock noted, glancing at the tea table. “There’s one left.” He extracted the remaining biscuit from the package and bit into it, crunching loudly.

“You can buy your own sodding supply, you can.”

“And why would I when you always have some?”

John sighed. His addiction to Tim Tams meant he knew when he was outwitted, once again.

“Shall we pop ‘round to Angelo’s? Could do with some pasta.”

Sherlock paced back and forth with a ponderous expression.

“C’mon, you haven’t eaten all day, except for my biscuits.”

“I can’t think there with all the noise, and the smells, and –“

Sherlock stopped his pacing and made a dramatic gesture with arms outstretched.

“Obviously!” he shouted, then grinned at his flatmate.

“Obviously you’re hungry, or obviously you’ve solved the case already?”

“Both.” Sherlock played a fleet run on his violin. “What lies between the UK headquarters of the House of Devardieu and the flat of Phillipa Jones?”

“Absolutely no idea, and since you don’t know where she lived –“

“Ah but it has to, there’s no other place close enough to the one, and thus to the other. What is the first principle of finding something?”

“Always eliminate the obvious.”

“And as clever as she was, Phillipa had no time for anything other than the obvious, but to **her** , not her employer. So, an obvious place is –“

“- in plain sight.”

“Or plain scent, as it were. What is the worst part of a department store?”

“I try to avoid them whenever possible.”

“And this spot for certain. What lies between points A and B is Marks and Spencer and their most odious section -”

“- the perfume counter!”

“Obviously. The perfect place to hide a perfume is among dozens of other perfumes, no one would ever know unless they were looking for it.”

“She _was_ clever!”

“Why is it all the clever ones have to die?” Sherlock murmured.

John stood up, moving towards the coat rack. “So are we going, then? To find it?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Did you not notice my use of the word _odious_?”

“Oh, right. Let’s **not** go there then.”

Sherlock logged onto his computer and thus to his website, where he posted the following:  
 _La Nez: cat among the pigeons, check M &S for your property. JW awaiting your payment._

“I rather think you should go fetch some of that Papaya Passion after all.”

“Y’don’t like Guava Garden, then?”

Sherlock crinkled his nose. “Ghastly!”

“That scent Lottie created, I must say, well…I’d be hard-pressed –“

“Yes it will be a rousing success I’ve no doubt, but we shall never speak of this again.”

“Why not?” John asked as they donned their coats.

“Because it’s no _Enchanted Cape_ , that’s why, and that’s the whole trouble. Lottie McGherson needs an education in the classics, not bizarre excursions into recreating bodily secretions.”

“Well when you put it that way…” John said, shaking his head. “Wait a minute, so why should I be getting the shopping _and_ the washing-up?”

“Division of labour,” Sherlock noted as they came down the stairs and exited onto Baker Street. “Since I have to do all the thinking around here.”

“Wot was that bit ‘bout _inflation of egos_ , again?” John cracked as they walked along and was rewarded by the ghost of a smirk from his colleague.


End file.
